Choice of Weapon

  Chapter 14

  Brian was literally frothing at the mouth. Small flecks of foam bubbled at the corners of his lips.

  ‘Jesus fucking wept. For fucks sake, Garrett. Don’t start a war, I said. Protection only, I said. I specifically did not say kill everyone in the entire fucking neighborhood and get my boys shot to shit at the same time. I know, because I would have remembered saying it. I fucking would have remembered saying, kill fucking everyone and make sure that my boys get shot as well. I would have fucking remembered.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, mate. But it’s not all that bad. It was only a flesh wound…’

  ‘He was shot fucking twice. Getting shot twice is not a flesh wound, it is getting the fucking shit shot out of you.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Fucking sure it won’t happen again, my china plate. Because it ends here. No more using my boys. Now you want to go up against Mister Big? Garrett, listen to me, Mister Big shits bigger than us. Mister Big is bad. He is untouchable. It’s over. Tell sister Manon that it’s finished. Seriously, Garrett, this will get you killed. These are bad fucking men, you have no idea what will happen to you.’

  Garrett stared at his ex-sergeant for a while. No one talked. Heavy breathing. Visible anger from Brian. And then Garrett said.

  ‘I am bad men, Brian. I am what happens to other people. They do not happen to me,’ he leant forward, green eyes unhooded. The abyss looking back at you. ‘I happen to other people.’

  And Brian took a step back. Visions of darkness. Slashing machetes. Men screaming like animals. Less than animals. Less than human. Popobawa.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Relax, okay? We’ll talk later, relax.’

  And the beast crawled back into its cave.

  Mandoluto pulled his cincture tight. The knots cut into the flesh of his torso. A reminder of his weakness. A punishment for his failure to do his duty. He dressed in his usual dark gray tailored suit, the cut emphasizing his broad shoulders, narrow hips. Prowling, feline athleticism.

  It was five thirty in the morning and, as he did every morning, he had a breakfast meeting with his most reverend imminence cardinal Voysie. It was here that he would tell him of his failure.

  He sat down opposite the cardinal. Before him, Pronutro; a South African high-energy cereal that tasted like a blend of Soya and sawdust, no sugar, a bowl of stewed fruit, black coffee, water. The cardinal was already seated. His imminence said a short grace and they ate. Food before talk. Always. When they were finished a servant cleared the table and brought a fresh cafetiere of coffee.

  Mandoluto took a deep breath. ‘I have failed. I could not pull the trigger.’

  The cardinal said nothing for a while. Stared intently at the younger man opposite him. Eventually.

  ‘Yes, my son. You have failed. You have failed me. You have failed yourself. You have failed your church. And you have failed your God.’

  Mandoluto’s eyes brimmed with scalding hot tears off shame. ‘Help me, your eminence.’

  ‘Where will he be tonight?’

  ‘If our information is correct then he will be attempting to question mister Big. A crime boss in charge of the greater part of SOWETO’s crime.’

  The cardinal nodded. ‘I know of him. He has contributed quite generously of late. I haven’t actually met him. Not sure why the sudden generosity to the church.’

  ‘Perhaps he has found the Lord.’

  The cardinal smiled softly. ‘Perhaps, my son. More likely that he has contracted some form of dread disease and seeks repentance. Covering all of his bases, as our American friends would say. It would be a pity to lose such a benefactor, would it not?’

  Mandoluto stood from his chair, walked around the table and went down on his left knee.

  ‘Bless me, your eminence. Help me to be strong.’

  ‘May God grant you strength and courage. Bless you, my son.’

  Mandoluto kissed the cardinals rings and left the room.

  The cardinal picked up the phone.

  ‘I will go alone,’ said Garrett as he racked back the slide on the 45. Then he ejected the magazine, thumbed in another round and slapped it back. One up the spout. Cocked and locked. Ready to rock and roll.

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  Garrett looked at Petrus. The paraffin lamp in the guard’s one room living quarters cast shadow from the ground up. Every face a child’s horror movie.

  Manon sat on the edge of the bed. Pale. Quiet. Pools of darkness hid her eyes.

  ‘Don’t go, Garrett.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  Garrett smiled. Grim. Sardonic. ‘If not me, then who?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Yes, Your eloquence overcame me. Anyway, who said that you had the monopoly on stupid?’

  The soldier laughed and then his face grew serious. He leant forward and grasped the Zulu’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  They left the room in silence. Garrett did not belittle Petrus’s offer by questioning it. He was a man. He could make his own decisions.

  As they drove towards SOWETO Garrett took stock of their situation; he had a 45 with thirty rounds of ammunition and a machete. Petrus had his assegai. When Garrett had suggested that he bring his rusty shotgun the Zulu had refused. Better to die with steel in your hand than with plastic, he had claimed. Garrett thought it better not to die at all. But then here he was. He had asked Brian for more weapons but he had refused. Adamant. As a result they had not even bothered to formulate a plan. They would arrive, try to sneak in, question mister Big and then take it from there. God protects fools and angels. Garrett hoped so.

  Mister Big tried not to cough. It was too painful. Never before had he experienced such agony. He felt like his body had been scourged and rolled in salt. His skin hung in loose folds on his body. A human Shar-pei. His tongue and mouth were full of deep lesions, his head a ball of pain. His breath came in short shallow gulps and his diarrhea was so chronic that he had started to inadvertently soil himself. And now he had just learnt that a man, a foreign white man, was coming to his house to punish him for taking an orphan. A homeless, parentless, meaningless child. The irony was delicious. Every day that he lived had become a curse. But still, he was not the sort of man that would let a threat like this go unopposed. He called Washington, his second in charge, his command a wheezing bark. And he told him. When the man comes tonight, let him get over the wall and then finish him. Outside, in the garden. Not in my house. Pull the fuses for the security lights on the left, back corner of the plot. He will come over there. Take eight men and ambush him in the hedges before the swimming pool. There may be one or maybe two of them but still, do not underestimate them. I have been told that these are very dangerous men. Washington nodded his acceptance of the order and went to arm his men.

  The clock ticked, slicing little moments of pain off mister Big’s life.

  The Long Gun lay flat on the top of the water tower that overlooked mister Big’s mansion. A full magazine in the Dragunov, the same sight set-up as the night before. The target environment lay just over six hundred meters away. The sun had gone down and Mandoluto sipped on a plastic bottle of mineral water. He emptied his mind of trepidation and filled it instead with a vision of the stained glass windows of his church, lit up by the morning sun. The glory of the Lord in full Technicolor. He would not fail.

  The security lights mounted on the back corner of the property were not working, leaving the area in deep shadow. Garrett had parked the Jeep up against the wall and they had climbed over the electric fence by simply jumping from the roof of the vehicle. There had been a light rain just before the sun had gone down and now that it had dried out the air was alive with mating flying ants. Half an inch long with wings so flimsy that they fell off as soon as they brushed against anything and the insect was left to crawl ar
ound for a couple of hours, mating frantically until it died. Garrett had seen swarms of them before but never as thick as this. He brushed a handful from his face. Born, eat, fly, fuck, die. Garrett thought that it sounded like a pretty fulfilling life. Turning his thoughts back to the moment, he crept slowly across the garden, heading towards the house.

  Mandoluto focused on Garrett, his features hazed slightly by the inordinate number of flying ants in the air. He had already compensated for bullet drop over the distance and there was no wind to speak of. Then he raised his barrel up and scanned ahead. He saw them. Counted. Eight. Four on each side of the path that the two intruders were taking. All carrying sidearms. It was time.

  Our father …his finger tightened, taking up the slack. Who art in heaven…the rifle recoiled and the brass case flew in a glittering arc into the night.

  Garrett had spent over fifteen years of his life fighting in various armies. He had been wounded a number of times, once close to death. And, over time, he had developed a sense that had kept him alive when most others around him had passed on. It was not as much as a sixth sense. Nothing as overt as that. It was merely the tiniest, faintest feeling. Some small niggle in your subconscious that said; something is wrong. And when you feel it you have to react instantly.

  He threw himself to the ground, dragging Petrus down at the same time. As he did so the air above them was torn apart with the whip and crackle of small arms fire. A group of men came charging out of the bushes at them, pistols blazing away like an old cowboy movie. And then the lead man was picked off his feet and thrown back in a mist of blood, like a giant had flicked him in the chest. In rapid succession the other ambushers were hammered to the ground. Marionettes, strings being cut. No accompanying sound of gunfire. Simply the wet sound of lead punching through flesh. Blood arcing blackly through the night air. Twitching corpses. Flying ants picking greedily at pools of viscous red warmth.

  Mandoluto collected up the spent cartridges and put them into his pocket. Then he wrapped the rifle in a towel and placed into an Adidas holdall. That late afternoon, before he had left, the Cardinal had come to him and said, ‘“And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children. In Righteousness shalt thou be established: thou shalt be far from oppression; for thou shalt not fear: and from terror; for it shall not come near thee. Isaiah 54:13,14.”

  My son, if little children cannot be saved, then how can any of us expect to be? For too long has the Catholic Church turned its back on the children. No longer. Go forth, my son, and do God’s work. Protect the soldier at all costs for he is a servant of the Lord even if he does not know it.’

  So The Long Gun had done the Lord’s work. And tonight and every other night, in the twilight of his dreams, there would be eight more pleading souls crying out to him.

  Garrett and Petrus lay prone, faces pushed into the lawn.

  Eventually Petrus spoke. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘I have no idea. Someone took out the uglies with a silenced sniper rifle of some sort.’

  ‘Is it safe to move?’

  ‘Definitely,’ replied Garrett. ‘I’ve never seen shooting like that before. Incredible. If the shooter wanted us dead we’d be ant food by now. Looks like mister Big has got more on his plate than just us. Come on. Let’s move.’

  The two of them sprinted for the back door. It was unlocked so they both barreled in, Garrett with 45 held ready. The kitchen was empty. The soldier crept through into the hall. Shadow. Threw himself to the floor. The concussion of a shotgun. Shockingly loud in the confined space. A gout of flame rent the air above him. He returned fire. Double tap. The shadow went down. He waited a while, ears ringing. Eyes smarting with the afterimage of orange flame. Body tense. He gestured to Petrus to take point.

  The Zulu ghosted past Garrett, assegai held at high port. The house was dark. Silent but for the faint noise of a television set coming from one of the upstairs rooms. Music and voices. The rain in Spain. Audrey Hepburn. My Fair Lady.

  The end of the corridor opened out into a huge open-plan area. Clusters of sofas were placed around the room forming smaller conversation-friendly areas. A water feature trickled soundlessly down the one wall into a pool of colored water. In the far corner of the room was a double bed, fully made up with a mountain of pillows piled against the headboard. On the edge of the bed sat a man, his head low. Hands clasped between his knees. His breath a harsh grinding drone. Gray face like melted rubber. Slack and lifeless. Apart from him the room was empty.

  He looked up at the two intruders. ‘So, you have come for the child.’

  Garrett nodded. ‘We have come for all of the children.’

  The sick man shook his head. ‘There is only one. She is upstairs. She is unharmed. I did not…could not…’ he coughed. Deep wracking and painful.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘We only took one. Why would I take any more?’

  ‘To sell. To others with the disease.’

  ‘I would not trade in children.’

  ‘But you took this one.’

  ‘Yes, but as I said, she is unharmed. Go and check, third door on the left at the top of the stairs. The door is locked, just turn the little knob on the handle to open.’

  Garrett took the stairs four at a time and hurried to the door, unlocking it and rushing into the room. Thandi was lying on the double bed. On her stomach, feet in the air, watching a small portable television. She looked up at Garrett.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Thandi.’

  ‘Hello. Have you come to take me home?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘I miss my brother. Can we take the television?’

  Garrett nodded, ‘Don’t see why not.’

  He unplugged the unit and put it under his arm, the 45 still held in his right hand. They walked back down the steps and into the lounge area. Petrus and mister Big silently watched them descend.

  ‘This guy knows nothing about the other kidnappings,’ said Petrus. ‘He simply needed a virgin child and figured to take an orphan so no one was that bothered.’

  Mister Big laughed. The sound wet and unpleasant. ‘Just my luck, hey. I picked one of your orphans. So, what now?’

  Thandi waved at mister Big. ‘Bye-bye, Baba, father. I go home now. Thank you for the TV.’

  Big waved back. ‘Goodbye little one.’

  Garrett gestured to Petrus with his head. ‘Come on. Let’s blow, leave the old guy, he’s been punished enough already.’

  They walked towards the front door. As Garrett opened it mister Big croaked out.

  ‘Wait,’ he held his hand out to Petrus. Beseeching. ‘Madota, minasiza. Help me. Please.’

  Petrus glanced at Garrett who nodded. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  The Zulu walked over to the sick man. ‘How can I help, madala?’

  ‘I am dying. The pain is bad, but the feeling of weakness is worse. You have taken my servants; I have no friends, no family. Disease is my only companion.’ He sat up straighter and looked Petrus in the eye.

  ‘I used to be a man of power. Now, I shit my pants like a baby.’

  ‘You want me to end it?’

  ‘Please. A man’s death.’ He unbuttoned his shirt to expose his chest. ‘Send me to my ancestors.’

  Petrus nodded and knelt before the dying man in respect. ‘Bayete, baba. I salute you, father.’

  And he stood up and lunged forward in one fluid movement. The scalpel sharp steel punched through Big’s chest and exited between his shoulder blades. Petrus twisted hard and pulled the spear back. The old man collapsed forward onto the floor. A slight smile on his face.

  Petrus wiped the blade thoroughly on the bedspread and left the house, leaving the door open behind him.